


A Trick of the Light

by Natasha_Von_Lecter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5082649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Von_Lecter/pseuds/Natasha_Von_Lecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light behaves strangely in the dark castle. Shadows can be glimpsed, from the corner of your eye, that almost take on a human quality. But surely, it’s just a trick of the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trick of the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ANG_the_nerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANG_the_nerd/gifts).



The first time she sees it, she convinces herself it is merely a trick of the light. The dark castle is vast and there are ancient hallways no sunlight has ever penetrated. Of course there will be shadows in such a place. She is no longer a little girl, to be frightened by the soft, velvet darkness. “A trick of the light,” she reassures herself even as a part of her knows it is a lie. Shadows may be everywhere, but few wear such a human form. 

Her master is less mad than she initially suspected. She has come to see the piercing giggles and nonsense rhymes are only theatrics he cloaks himself with in an effort to keep his true self hidden from those with whom he deals. He has been not exactly kind to her, but nor has he been cruel. Her master is not mad, though he is desperately lonely and full of a weighty sadness that must have taken centuries to accumulate. And yet, sometimes in midsentence, his voice will trail off as his gaze drifts beyond her to the shadows that spill out from the halls. She wonders then, if perhaps he knows the taste of madness after all. She reminds herself that the light here plays tricks, and she’d do well to ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when he looks over her shoulder as though they are no longer alone. 

They settle into a tentative peace – she keeps his home clean and warm. He gives her books. Sometimes they even take tea together by the fire. Her life is not what she expected it would be when she was a child, but it is not unpleasant. Gradually, she stops thinking of him as her master. Instead, she thinks of him as not exactly a friend, but close enough that the distinction hardly matters. And if occasionally he seems lost in morose contemplation of the creeping shadows, she will bury her head in her book and give him time to come back to himself. The gooseflesh pricking her skin is only in her imagination. They are alone in the castle, no matter how much her sixth sense protests. No matter what she sees out of the corner of her eye. 

They continue on good terms, and she eventually admits that she has come to care for her friend. He may be a beast, but he is kinder now that she has taken some of the loneliness from him. His edges soften. His laughter becomes genuine. Sometimes she catches him smiling at her, and she knows he feels an affection for her that she never would have thought could blossom in his sad heart. Their protective layers fall away as the months hurry by, and she thinks perhaps it would not be such a strange thing to learn to love a beast. Her life has become more her own than ever before and she would call herself unreservedly happy, if not for the sense of unease she feels every time she catches a ghosting shadow on the periphery of her vision.

She loses track of time beyond a basic grasp of the seasons. The nights become cold – winter would be unbearable if not for the enchanted comforter he gifts to her. It is not much to look at, shabby even, and small. As if for a child. But it keeps her warm on the bitterest nights and she is touched by his thoughtfulness. She sleeps better when the cold is kept at bay, though she is sometimes possessed by the strangest feeling as if the bed beside her dips with the weight of an unseen presence. Small, and slight, but there nonetheless. It has been a long time since she felt alone in the castle. She wonders if perhaps he sees the presence she only senses, only glimpses when she doesn’t look too hard. 

Yule arrives – instead of their usual tea he produces a bottle of deep, blood red wine, and pours a glass for them both. They sit by the fire in companionable conversation, and the wine flows freely. Another bottle is opened, more glasses poured. She shifts closer to him, and though he does not touch her, she can sense that he wishes he could. She’d like to reach out, but she’s afraid to startle him. Afraid he’d retreat from her and she is enjoying his company too much to chance driving him away. She wishes they could stay up together all night. When the clock strikes three, she is finally roused to sensibility. She rises and says her goodnight, but her feet freeze in their tracks when she sees the dark hallway looming before her. She has made it a habit to avoid the dark walks alone at night. The presence she senses does not seem malignant, but she does not understand it and it makes her wary. He sees her hesitation, and goes to her side. Giddy with the wine, a low laugh escapes him. He leans in close, his lips brushing her ear. He whispers, “Is my pretty maid afraid of the dark?” Her breath hitches in her chest as he draws her back against his chest. The contact is more intoxicating than the wine and she finds herself unable to answer. He speaks instead. “Then I shall escort you to your room safely.” 

There is a flash of purple smoke, and they materialize inside her room. She turns to face him. His hands drop to her waist, but he does not let her go. He has never been in her room before, but it feels right to her that he is now. The giddiness of the wine has left him – his fingers twitch against her waist involuntarily. His breathing becomes rapid and his strange eyes dilate. She lays her hand against his heart and she can feel something twist in him at her tacit approval. His hands at her waist press her back, and she feels the edge of the bed make contact with her thighs. When she sits, he drops to his knees before her, his long, spindly fingers reaching for the hem of her dress and inching it up, up, up. He lifts her skirts to her knees, and his hands snake around the outer swell of her thighs to rest beside her on the bed. His fingers curl against the fabric of her enchanted comforter, and she can feel a change come over him. His eyes leave her face, and settle on her bed. She can see his fingers tracing something at the hem of the blanket. She reaches out to card her fingers through his hair, but he pulls back from her touch. He smooths her dress back to her ankles, and gains his feet. He doesn’t meet her eyes, but he whispers, “Forgive me.” Before she can entreat him to stay, he’s gone.

It is a moment before she can calm her hammering heart. She lights a candle, and drops to her knees at the place where he knelt only seconds before. She runs her fingertips over a small patch of embroidery. Baelfire. A man’s name. Or a boys. She feels a distinct pressure on the back of her hand. A gentle squeezing. She knows she is not alone. There is fear at first, but she quiets her heart and tries to focus. She whispers, “Baelfire?” Again, a faint but unmistakable squeeze. She begins to put everything together – The child’s quilt he gave her, the toys scattered around the castle. He has lost his son. Her heart aches for him, and she finds her fear completely dissipated. All she wants in that moment is to comfort the man she has come, however surprisingly, to love. Screwing up her courage, she says “Take me to him.” And invisible hand tugs at her skirt, and she follows where she is led. 

She finds him sitting on the floor in a small, disused room at the end of the hall. He is slumped against the foot of a child’s bed, his hands in his hair. He is silent, but fat tears trail their way down the crags of his cheeks. From behind, she feels a gentle push. She goes to him. Sinking to her knees beside him, she softly calls his name. When he doesn’t look up, she reaches for his chin, but his hand clasps hers and stops it short. Still not meeting her eyes, he strokes his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Belle. It won’t happen again.”

“You were the one that left me, Rumplestiltskin.”

“Yes, well. I may have forgotten myself in the wine, but I wasn’t too drunk to realize you’d regret…that…in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t regret…”

“Go to bed, Belle.”

But she can’t just go to bed. She can’t just leave him alone with his pain. He reached for her. Now, she’ll reach for him. 

“This isn’t about me, is it? It’s about Baelfire.”

He flinches away from her as if struck. She continues, her words tumbling forth fast and reckless. “That’s his name, isn’t it? Your son. Baelfire. I found his name on the blanket.”

She can tell he doesn’t want to discuss this. She knows it’s the source of sadness that’s always just behind his eyes. She knows it’s a canker on his heart. But sometimes wounds needs to be lanced. Sometimes the pain comes before the healing. And so she waits for him to speak. And he does. 

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I…lost him.”

“But he’s still here, isn’t he?”

His wide eyes regard her with suspicion. “How do you...?”

“I…see things out of the corner of my eye. Never clearly, but I feel it. I think…”

“It’s my fault he’s dead. I wanted more than anything to protect him, but I failed. I was a coward.”

“Oh, Rumple.”

Pain radiates off him in waves. She can taste the acrid tang of despair. 

“I think he’s trapped here, with me. I wanted so badly to have him back, Belle. It was early days then. I didn’t understand the price that always comes with magic. I was powerful, I wanted him back, and so he was. Not fully – even my magic can’t call the dead back to life. He was just a shade, but he was here. Three hundred years, trapped here, with me. All magic comes with a price, and he’s the one who paid it.”

The pain and self-loathing in his voice is so raw it breaks her heart. She softly strokes his cheek, and he continues. “I’ve been searching for a way to release him for centuries. Spells, potions, enchanted objects - nothing has had the least effect. I thought perhaps if I were to take my life he might be freed, but the curse…does not leave me that option. I…tried once. Several times, actually, but every injury heals clean in seconds. Poison has no effect. The curse protects its host even from himself.”

She feels a small, childlike hand on her shoulder and turns to look behind her. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s there. Rumple looks up, his eyes full of more melancholy than a beating heart should be able to bear. He smiles sadly over her shoulder, and whispers, “I’m sorry, Baelfire.”

Belle feels a gentle push, and she understands. She leans forward and gathers Rumplestiltskin into her arms. He’s stiff at first, but after a few shaky breaths he accepts her touch. She can feel some of the tension leave him, and his hands settle chastely on her back. She draws him closer, holding him tight. She takes a deep breath, and speaks. “You can go now, Baelfire. I will take care of your father.”

The change in the room is palpable – as if the very castle itself exhales after centuries of holding its breath. A calm settles over the chamber. For the first time, they are alone. Rumple senses it immediately, and draws back to look at her face with disbelief. 

“You…you…I’ve tried to set him free for centuries and you…”

She smiles at him, her heart swelling with compassion at all his years of pain. “Oh, Rumple. You couldn’t set him free because he wasn’t trapped here. He chose to stay with you because he didn’t want you to be lonely.”

He looks at her with a gentle awe that takes her breath away. She leans in and presses her lips to his. He tenses momentarily, but she feels something give way in him and soon he is kissing her back. Softly, with gentle reverence, his lips meld to hers. She senses a change, the strange roughness of his flesh falling away like shed snake-skin. When she pulls back to draw breath she is taken aback by the countenance of the man in her arms. His golden skin has faded to a mundane flesh tone. The odd eyes she has grown accustomed to now shift to warm amber. He is a plain man of middle years, but she has never seen anything as beautiful. He smiles at her, shyly, and she makes herself the promise she made Baelfire. She will take care of him. She will love him as long as her heart continues to beat. And after it stills, who can say? There is more magic in love than any spell. His fingertips ghost over her cheek. And he whispers, “Oh, Belle. You’ve set us all free.”

The End


End file.
